


The Importance of Style

by FleetingMadness



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Self-indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingMadness/pseuds/FleetingMadness
Summary: This is the canon on how my avatar changed her hair and her DRK glam. Minor mention of some NPCs and a friend’s WoL.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	The Importance of Style

T’chaanqa looked herself up and down in the mirror. After weeks of careful arrangement, saving up, testing, and relentless application of dyes, she had managed to perfect her new look. A black leather jacket hung off her shoulders, open in front to reveal a delicately patterned gray shirt. The hem of the jacket hung below her waist, framing the intricately laced-over pants that tucked into a pair of sturdy-yet-fashionable boots just below the knee. Padded fingerless gloves, one longer up the arm than the other, provided the grip that the colored mosaic of metal and stone on the handle of her odachi did not. The centrepiece of the whole look was a simple cloth blindfold; a gift from a strange woman which, T’chaanqa had learned, was carefully crafted to impede eyesight in no way whatsoever. A boyish, modern look, belonging less to T’chaanqa’s usual wilds and more to the back alleys of Kugane (or perhaps one of their stage shows).

“I’m not wearing that,” Fray said decisively.

“Why not?” T’chaanqa said. She turned half-around and swished her tail in the mirror; she was pleased to see it sliding in and through the slit Nyate had cut in the jacket. “It looks cool! Plus it’s all black. Isn’t that your whole thing, layering blacks?” She glanced over to the inn’s writing desk, where Fray was stubbornly refusing to fully manifest. A shadow that suggested their arm raised in forlorn gesture towards their host.

“It’s tacky,” they said, “Without form or decorum. It offers no protection and signals nothing of your creed or class.” At the mention of class, T’chaanqa fixed the implication of Fray’s face with a look so withering that had they been fully formed, it would have undone them. “Point taken, but while you might be a lowborn savage from Twelve-know-what wilds, I am still a knight of Ishgard.” T’chaanqa gave a heavy sigh, and turned back to the less talkative of her reflections. “Why could you not simply keep the dress? I liked the dress.”

“The dress took five years to get on,” T’chaanqa said. She undid her rough ponytail and tossed the ribbon to the side.

“It wouldn’t if you didn’t thrash your tail like a kitten the whole time.” T’chaanqa bit back several responses, one of which was to throw the mirror at them.

“Dresses are for special occasions from now on,” she said simply, and pulled her hair behind her head. In the mirror, she saw Fray solidify, taking her face and their own former armor. “The next time we have to protect Nanamo from a dinner full of assassins, we can wear the dress.” She paused. “Or the next time we have to kick Beq Lugg’s door down. Seems like we could at least dress to match such a glamorous deathtrap.” Fray was behind her now, their fingers making a curious half-sound as they ran through her hair.

“You have changed, you know,” they said, rather more softly than usual. “When we first met, you truly were little more than a lowborn--well, perhaps not savage, but ruffian, to be sure.” T’chaanqa’s eyes closed as Fray began to strain and shift and arrange her hair, moving very gently to avoid upsetting the blindfold. “You’ve come a long way since then. You’ve grown as a warrior and a person.” They chuckled, and T’chaanqa knew they were making that sarcastic half-smile that had once looked so wrong on her own face. “You even adopted two children along the way.” T’chaanqa burst out laughing at that, though it was largely from picturing the abject delight on Zhloe’s face if she had heard it contrasted with the unfiltered mortification that Mjrn would have. Fray tugged her back upright by the hair.

“You’re not trying to take credit for all of that, are you?” She raised her eyebrows at Fray in the mirror. “I think Y’shtola might manifest and kick both our asses if you are.”

“No, no,” Fray chuckled. “I’m not so conceited as that.” T’chaanqa felt a final tug on their hair as Fray tied off their work with a simple red ribbon, and was then freed to inspect their handiwork: A simple yet elegant fishtail braid, dropping just below her shoulders, resting perfectly on the back of her jacket. “I’m merely saying that I am proud to be a part of the woman you have become.” Fray turned away, as they so often did when unforming. The lines of their shape became blurry and roiled backwards, their aether returning to its bodily host. T’chaanqa briefly wondered if the blacks and greys of her clothes had become slightly more distinct for it, but dismissed the notion as quickly and easily as it had come. She stood in silence for a moment, enjoying the warmth of their words and presence. After the best of it had passed, she stepped back suddenly, pulled her odachi from her back, and swung it through the air once, twice, and then settled into a low stance, her eyes never leaving the mirror. Her movements were fluid and unrestricted; the boots gave enough grip to compensate for the weight of the sword, and the tails of the jacket flared out ever so slightly when she changed her stance. Perfect.

From the back of her mind, she heard Fray’s voice again: “I’m still not wearing it.”


End file.
